"As I live, it is the Royal Intendant himself," screamed Lizette, as
she ran, out of breath, to inform her mistress, who was sitting
alone in the summer-house in the garden behind the mansion, a pretty
spot tastefully laid out with flower beds and statuary. A thick
hedge of privet, cut into fantastic shapes by some disciple of the
school of Lenotre, screened it from the slopes that ran up towards
the green glacis of Cape Diamond.
Angelique looked beautiful as Hebe the golden-haired, as she sat in
the arbor this morning. Her light morning dress of softest texture
fell in graceful folds about her exquisite form. She held a Book of
Hours in her hand, but she had not once opened it since she sat
down. Her dark eyes looked not soft, nor kindly, but bright,
defiant, wanton, and even wicked in their expression, like the eyes
of an Arab steed, whipped, spurred, and brought to a desperate leap--
it may clear the wall before it, or may dash itself dead against
the stones. Such was the temper of Angelique this morning.
Hard thoughts and many respecting the Lady of Beaumanoir, fond
almost savage regret at her meditated rejection of De Repentigny,
glittering images of the royal Intendant and of the splendors of
Versailles, passed in rapid succession through her brain, forming a
phantasmagoria in which she colored everything according to her own
fancy.
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